


Lost Boy

by ToothyApocalypse



Series: The Rose Petal Collection [1]
Category: Motorcity (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Bullying, Gen, Happy Ending, Healing, Homeless Character, Implied Murder, Innocence, M/M, Magical Breakdowns, Mild Angst, Playing Pretend, Violence, Young Characters, but Mike is there so it gets better, faefolk, fantasy shenanigans, in which Dutch explains the difference between Faeries and Fairies, until Mike says No Thank You, wholesome fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26965351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToothyApocalypse/pseuds/ToothyApocalypse
Summary: When the dragon looks up from staring at the magelight, meeting Chuck’s wide eyes, it smiles, curved and startlingly kind, its striking eyes squinting happily under its shaggy bangs. Chuck’s breath catches at the sight.“Hey,” says the dragon privately, voice light and gravelly and perfect, “are you okay?”-----Homeless and alone, Chuck is visited by a faerie dragon in the night.
Relationships: Mike Chilton & Chuck
Series: The Rose Petal Collection [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1967791
Comments: 8
Kudos: 17





	1. What's It Like to Be a—

“ _Freak!”_

Chuck ducks as a rotten tomato flies over his head, landing with a gross splat on the ground in front of him. He keeps moving, walking fast but still _walking_ , which is a big improvement on his part. Whenever those horrible voices shouted at him as a kid, he would run as fast as he could, which normally ended in a chase out of the village. Sometimes, they’d catch him and kick him, hurt him, but… he’s gotten better at running.

Chuck is fifteen now; he’s not really a kid anymore, and, even as he strides away, he knows they’ll follow him and spit or throw more rotten fruits at him. Nine years and Chuck still hasn’t bothered to learn their names or faces or ask them to stop, instead he avoids them whenever he hears an angry shout in his general direction. Not that any of that would help, especially not when everyone thinks touching Chuck will kill them on contact.

Poisonous frogs are a real thing. Maybe Chuck has just been hanging around the wrong crowd this whole time.

Midstride, a rock hits the back of Chuck’s head with a sharp crack. He jolts forward and yelps, abruptly reevaluating his decision on the whole _walking calmly_ thing. Raising a hand to his scalp, Chuck gasps at the pain that shoots down his neck, makes his head throb with a new kind of headache. When he pulls his hand away, he sees blood sparkling across his fingers. Oh, _cool_ , he thinks, heart beginning to race. That’s super great.

“Hey, I’m talkin’ to you, fuckin’ lighthand!”

No more walking then.

Chuck bolts down the street, light and fast, not as clumsy here as he is in the forest with no roots to trip on. The shouts follow close behind, hissing and snapping. A little thought in the back of his head whispers— they’ll kill him if he stops, because maybe people finally decided to gain the competence to learn that he’s still a human being, not a poisonous amphibian. That would _suck_ ; immunity through fear isn’t an option anymore. He scrambles as he sprints back to the forest, where the trees that are tall and skinny like him, a home away from the village he was born into and abruptly demonized by in a short six years. This place, among the mud and the twigs, does not judge him.

Jumping over a rotten log, Chuck slides down the stoop of a familiar hill, hits a fallen tree on the way, and somersaults down the last few yards. He hits the ground on his side, grunting, and starts to scramble up when hands shove him back into the dirt.

“Stay down, magic man!”

“Stop—” Chuck’s head cracks back down to the ground as one of the hands snaps a sharp punch against his temple.

He gasps, chokes on the air as one of the boys nails their shoe into his ribs; a dark-haired boy slams their heel into his spine, right between his shoulder blades. Every mark hits a jutting bone below his filthy, tattered shirt, bruising into his skin.

“None of the adults wanna touch ya,” the boy who's been yelling says triumphantly, nasally and high, and flicks his long flare of brown bangs off to one side of his face. “But we know y’ can touch fellas. Y’ don’t got poison skin like they say you do! Grab ‘im good, boys!”

Chuck bares his teeth in a pained snarl as one of the boys drops down, digs their knee into his back to push him flush against the ground, and yanks Chuck’s head up by his matted hair so hard that his eyes start to water. Hands hold his arms down by his shoulders, keeping him still, restricting his movement, and even if Chuck wanted to cast something it’d backfire on him if he wasn’t careful. As much as it would burn to cast, he wishes he could, because they’ll kill him, they’ll _kill him_. He wants to persuade them, say something smart or friendly or something to _disengage the violence_ , but the boy is talking again and Chuck isn’t listening to what he’s saying anymore—

The threat is so evident in his voice that Chuck is already squeezing his eyes shut tight, tears watering down his cheeks, and blindly agreeing, “I’ll get out, I’ll go— _please_ , just _stop!_ I’ll get out of town, I promise, I promise—”

“And give you time to put a curse on us? Yeah, sure, amigo, when pigs fly!” The kids throw their heads back with a ringing, shrill laughter, their leader hooting with glee over the top of them, like this is _fun_ to them. Like hurting things— hurting people, hurting _Chuck_ — is one of their favorite pastimes.

Opening his eyes is a mistake. Chuck nearly chokes on his tongue as the leader crouches down, a serrated dagger snug in his palm and inching closer to Chuck’s throat, embroidered with glittering diamonds against its black pommel. They’re not like Chuck or any of the other children in the village, he realizes as he gets a good look at the dangerous glint in the leader’s eyes, the crooked teeth in the horrible sneer, the long, wild hair hanging down his back with bangs poking out from under a billed cap. Chuck lashes against the grapple, leaking with tears for more reasons than pain, eyes locked onto the blade so shiny he can see his own reflection. Normal children don’t carry _assassin blades_ in their back pockets.

Desperately, he prays that the tingle against his eyelashes is magic ready to defend him, hopes it isn’t magic because these people will definitely kill him for it. Even worse, the _magic_ could finally decide to kill Chuck— cripple him, leave him for dead, finally turn on him as his own power he was _hardly ever able to control—_

Chuck gasps and heaves, hyperventilating between the combined efforts of his head and his reality, but the boy keeps going like nothing is wrong.

“Mama says she’ll finally accept us to the brotherhood,” the boy says, smirks with too-big teeth. Chuck glances around— only three boys, only two others holding him down— shoots his terrified gaze back at the leader, and doesn’t quite manage to smother his whimper. “Y’ keep stealing these good people’s food ‘n things. I betcha sneak into houses through the windows an’ steal their blankets!”

“Yeah, he stole my blanket two nights ago, at our camp!” A redhead over Chuck’s right shoulder announces, “Woke up right an’ it was gone, Junior!”

Chuck gapes at them, stunned. Chuck didn’t _steal_ anything, he’s not a _thief_ , but he’s not about to say that with the boy scooting up to sit forward, closing in on him with the blade.

“Wait, I-I can— I can do something for you!” Chuck says desperately, the veins in his arms beginning to throb with something unnatural, something he can’t ignore. “Stop, please!”

“Y’ can’t do anythin’ for us, we already got that covered,” the leader— Junior, he said— smirks and leans down, flicking his bangs out of his eye to glare at Chuck, “unless you wanna start cryin’ for your _mama_.”

As soon as he says it, Junior snorts in Chuck’s face and throws his head back, _howling_ with laughter. The chorus of terrible screeches from the other boys are loud and harsh enough that, despite the grim drop of his heart, Chuck cringes, flinches at the spittle that flies in his face.

“Oh yeah,” Junior scoffs, settling down and grinning like it’s some big joke, “that’s right! You _can’t!”_

Chuck realizes what he’s going to say a second too late, but he wouldn’t—

“Y’ ain’t got no mama—”

Their faces are inches away now, and Chuck sobs and it’s bad, it’s not a good joke. He couldn’t say it, won’t say it, no one’s that cruel, he _can’t_ —

“—you burned ‘er up in the _fire_.”

Blood and something adulterated rushing to his ears, Chuck wails, slumps his head and tenses under their hands, under their stupid fucking laughing faces. For a second, the feelings inside him are so loud he might throw up… or die, if that’s possible. It all _hurts_ and they’re laughing at him, and his head is a whirlwind, the rage and the grief, and the _power_ , it—

... It’s natural.

He throws his head back and _screams_ , feels that power rush up his body and _lets it_. Chuck has just enough time to watch Junior’s eyebrows shoot up into his hat, gasping and startling away from Chuck. He almost smiles at the immense satisfaction that comes from seeing that horrified look on the boys’ faces, because that’s what you get.

The magic prickles up into the corner of Chuck’s eyes, turning his vision white. He’s barely aware of his head snapping to the ground, the rough hands letting go, before he passes out.

* * *

Waking up after a… magical meltdown… is like waking up after running until the body shakes and _burns_ , like being completely pelted with rocks until little welts start to form across the skin. _Everything_ hurts.

Chuck opens his eyes, winces as he shifts his arms under him, and pushes himself up onto his elbows, shaking with the strain. For the unknown amount of “many” times in his life, he wonders if every mage started out like this. The world rocks around him as he attempts to sit up, and the sway almost tips him off balance and right back into the leaves. It takes a ungracious few minutes of breathing, arms shaking as he holds himself upright, until his vision stops swimming.

He spots Junior slumped up against a tree a couple yards away, out like a light, his hat thrown from his head and somewhere into the dead leaves below. Chuck huffs, shakes his head, and focuses on balancing as he twists around to look for the other two boys. He almost resents the heavy pound of relief in his chest when he sees their two forms thrown to either side of him, unconscious and maybe only a little singed from the output of Chuck’s instinctual spell. He shouldn’t feel bad since, y’know, they were trying to kill him, but it… proves that he’s dangerous. But, at the same time, everyone knows that, no matter the personality, every dog bites if it’s backed into a corner.

Chuck stumbles as he stands up, shivering and sweating all at once and positively _exhausted_ , the little voice in his head wondering if he may pass out on the way home.

God, _home_. That’s such a great idea.

Throwing one last glance around at the unconscious bodies, Chuck starts off deeper into the woods, a hand held out to a trunk to support him with each step. The tall, narrow trees tower over him— which they always have, but this time it feels like they’re glaring down at him, staring and watching. Chuck sniffles and shudders away from the feeling, walking faster. That’s too much. He can’t handle that without breaking down right now. The fear of the unknown has been something that always made Chuck walk a little faster, sometimes sprinting through shadows to get back home before the forest grew too dark, _especially_ if it was during a thunderstorm. He wants to run now, but he just keeps his head down and refuses to scrub his face as tears fall from his eyes, tickling the end of his nose. Ten minutes— that’s how long it takes to get from the village to home.

With the occasional uncoordinated trip and the faint wobble to his knees, the walk is longer.

As soon as the forest breaks open, Chuck’s shoulders sag. For him, home is a single tree on top of a grassy hill. As the only place where the forest opens into a clear circle, it makes special room for a gorgeous rolling hill and a single lonely oak before it continues on, undisturbed, like it was doing the sanctuary a favor. The oak tree is curved where the other trees in the forest are straight, thick where the others are thin, and even though it towers above the top of the forest on its perch of the hill, it’s shorter than the other trees. Chuck relishes the sight every time, lumbering up the hill with his tired strides that shake with each step. He looks at the healthy, wild grass and traces the few mole holes he can see; none of them are new.

Chuck sighs and waddles over to his setup: a dirt patch beside the tree where he’s put a crappy little fireplace, a dip in the ground right against the curving roots of the tree where he sleeps. Snug in the shelter of the tree, his bed of leaves and blanket await. The canopy protects him from most weather except winters— which are always terrible, and Chuck would rather not freeze to death— and, if it’s bad enough, heavy rain will flood him out.

He never managed to overcome his fear of thunderstorms. They’re big and loud and it’s always pouring rain when there’s thunder. It’s _scary_.

He spares one last glance at the setting sun just as it dips below the trees, casting the hill into a dark haze of evening shade. Another summer day gone with the wind, and he doesn’t feel satisfied with the ending.

Earlier, he found a new spot of wild blackberries. He ate today— which is good! It had almost been five days— and, now that he knows where the berries are, he can eat there as long as an animal hasn’t wandered by and taken them all. It’s an accomplishment, and he can’t enjoy it. His cheek still stings where the boy caught his fist on the bone, the back of his head still aches with a hidden bruise whenever he touches it, his veins still feel raw from the unhinged burn of magic.

Chuck is home at last, living to sleep another night, and he still feels _defeated_.

As soon as he turns away from the sunset, he pauses, staring at his unfamiliar hollow, directly where he sleeps.

He… left his blanket in its usual spot, right?

Stepping forward, he searches and searches, more and more frantically as the pastel sky starts to turn navy, turning his camp darker until he can barely see anymore, and it’s just _gone_. Chuck huffs and goes down hard on his knees, burying his hands in his uneven, overgrown hair so dirty that it looks patchy and dark brown— been like that for so long that he doesn’t really remember what color his hair actually is.

Chuck pulls at his bangs and screams behind pursed lips, the veins in his arms throbbing with a warning as the frustration swells behind his eyes in the form of tears. The burn hurts so bad— he used so much magic against those… assassins... today; he’s too worn to go risk casting more half-baked, emotional spells. He can still feel the faint beginnings of a headache against his temples, but even that wretched ache is an almost welcome distraction. It makes him hiss and claw at his arms and think about making the pain go away instead of wondering _how, why, where, when, what-if…_

Thinking he overlooked something, he scans his setup one last time, which isn’t much but a few huge, shrivelled leaves, some sticks and stones. He still has his flint, his fireplace is untouched, his little burrow in the tree is still cushioned with dead foliage. _Everything else is in order._

Everything except for the one thing that connected Chuck to anything normal.

Chuck twists his cracking lips, hugs his skinny arms, and scoots back toward the roots of the tree. He feels around his burrow for the soft spot he's made as a nest, a little crunchy but comfortable, and settles in, sniffling pitifully. His chest throbs, and it’s _stupid_ because it was _just a blanket,_ so it's _fine_ — he's fine. It was going to get taken eventually anyways; no matter how crummy and crusted and old it was (old as Chuck is), it was still valuable to anyone or anything who really needed it. It was _functional_.

Logic doesn't stop him from crying, leaning his sore back against the familiar bend of the oak trunk with his knees pulled to his face and weeping until his head throbs. He _hates it_ , hates the ugly crying over something so basic, so unimportant.

… But it was his, and he doesn't have much.

The stars are out by the time Chuck’s tears have finally stopped soaking his dirty knees, the sliver of a waxing moon doing nothing to make the forest any brighter. Pulling his face from his knees, Chuck barely notices a difference between the darkness behind closed eyes and the darkness of the night, the faint twinkle of stars the only real effect. Eyes swollen, almost too warm, Chuck watches the stillness, listens to the quiet rustle of leaves brushing against each other in the faint breeze, and sighs, willing himself to speak past the heavy melancholy in his chest.

“What would you have done, moon?” He whispers up to the sky, voice rasping.

The moon never replies, of course. He knows it’s not supposed to, but it’s still nice to think that there’s still… someone listening. He’s heard people talk about _the man in the moon_ , and the moon is always there to listen, so occasionally Chuck will spend time talking to technically no one.

In some ways, the moon is his friend. If there really is a man, then maybe the moon is some kind of magical being, someone like Chuck. And, if that’s the case, Chuck would reckon he’s obligated to listen to his fellow magic being. (It’s not like the moon has anything better to do.)

Sighing, Chuck continues, “I can’t do anything, moon. They’re sending assassins now… But, they don’t know I live here, so I’m safe here, right?”

The moon doesn’t glow brighter or dimmer, just hangs, passively impassive.

Chuck scoffs bitterly, irritated and weary. He doesn’t think the moon is his friend. “Thanks for nothing, moon…”

With that last horrid ache, Chuck huddles further into his nest, shifting so he curls down against the ground and takes a breath deep enough that his lungs give a faint, full throb. He keeps doing that for a long time, keeps doing it until his chest hurts from holding so much air for so long, until his lungs start to burn the same way his veins do.

By the time he’s held in his breath and let out the air one last time, his eyes have drifted closed, slipping quietly into dreams of warmth. Dreams where a kind, familiar voice tells him stories of giants as tall as mountains, of forests as tangled as a the roots of a rose bush, of faeries playing amongst sakura canopies, of dragons proudly bowing to the will of… a mysterious face, under a very special word that Chuck forgot long ago...


	2. The Rose Petal Dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the beginning of a love story. <3

It’s the dead of night when Chuck wakes up. He gasps for air, lungs constricting so hard his body throbs in time with his heartbeat, but he’s done this before, he just needs to breathe. 

He curls over on the ground, wheezing through the attack with his knees to his chest as he tosses and turns, muscles and veins burning with each shift. It’s a blessing he doesn’t feel sick on top of the panic attack. The anxiety loop and the internal scorches hurt worse when he starts sweating, hot and cold all at once and hardly able to move his fingers without feeling a sharp jolt of rawness under his skin, but it’s been a while since that has happened. Chuck is more careful about using his magic… unless _it_ ever decides to use _him_ instead.

Chuck pulls at his hair, heaving for breath until his chest finally, eventually, stops feeling like it’s going to implode. When the blur of anxiety slows, he stays against the ground and breathes, ragged and harsh but steadier. This time, the air actually shivers into his lungs while he thinks _thank god_.

Rolling onto his back, he squints at the sleep still gritting the corner of his eyes, rubs the heels of his hands over his face, and shivers. With one more deep intake, he progresses from shuddering and forceful gasps to normal, slow and easy breaths. His brain dies down to a deep buzz as he registers how _exhausted_ he still is, mind empty with its drowsy haze, numb now that the magic stole away most of his energy, body loose and sore. Chuck lets his hands fall from his eyes, to the sides of his face, and huffs, lying still to stare off at the shimmer of distant stars, imagining how they look from foreign places. He doesn’t think they’d look different to anyone else; the sky always has the same stars.

If that is true, what if someone, right now, is out there looking at the same stars he is? He wouldn’t be so alone then. 

That’s a jarring thought. The concept that so much goes on outside of Chuck’s forest is… a really, really big deal; one he doesn’t think about often, it’s too overwhelming. He gets hung up in panic attacks over ideas bigger than he is. Shaking away the thoughts, Chuck blinks hard and slicks his ratted hair away from his face—

For a brief second, something dark winks out the sliver of moon, disappearing as fast as it came.

Chuck freezes, stares, and focuses as he spots an inky void carving out the stars, gliding seamlessly through the night. Cautiously, he moves his elbows under him, winces at the ache in his muscles, and pushes himself to sit up and stare at the sky, watching the shape. He hears a wingbeat, heavy and… odd, bigger than any owl Chuck has heard— and he normally doesn’t hear those birds anyways. Owls are silent fliers, strong and steady and deadly when hunting so no mouse ever spots them attacking from the dark. He reevaluates. Heavy wings, not an owl— a midnight eagle, maybe? 

The thing’s wings blow a heavy gust of air across the camp. The grass on the hill rustles, and Chuck realizes with a dreadful curl in his stomach that it’s much, _much_ bigger than any bird and Chuck does not want to be eaten by demons tonight, thank you! Tongue catching in his throat, he tries to shove himself deeper into the shelter of the tree, hide away from the _whatever that thing is_ because that is _not_ an owl. The wind shifts—

And the shadow monster lands in front of Chuck, crushing twigs and blowing up a wave of leaves into his face on a warm summer breeze, defying the cold air of the night. The monster hunches, huge wings blocking out the stars as they flare. 

Flinching, Chuck rushes to push himself away, gasps when the back of his tattered shirt digs sharply into the bark of the oak, because he’s already huddled up against the tree— _he can’t move_ . The shadow's humongous wings arch and curl at the ends, and then subside, lowering against the ground beside the form. Chuck whimpers and raises his hand, the only spell he’s ever been able to cast safely curling around his burning arm, and it _hurts_ but it’ll be worth it once he can see where he can run (if he can run, if his legs don’t give out under him before he has a chance). Magic brushes up his fingers, a dull ball of light floating languidly from his palm until it hovers above his hand, glowing dimly. Safe as the spell is, it takes enough energy that Chuck gasps, harsh and desperate, the veins up his arms glowing and pulsing faintly, painfully. He has to force his eyes open to see his winged monster.

He’s immediately perplexed, staring at the… person. It’s a child— someone Chuck’s age. Another boy but with the two, slitted, green and golden eyes of a cat, mesmerized as they shift to stare at Chuck's ball of light. Its pupils dilate from thin slits to slim, rounded holes, the sight of surreal eyes that glow and flash with the faintest thrum of the magelight, pulsating like it thrives off the magic. The gigantic wings spread wide over their heads again, tan and green with huge pink eyespots near the wingtips, flaring open and blocking Chuck’s view away from the world in what screams to him as _THREAT get away RUN it’s an intimidation tactic_ —

What he’s looking at, the thing staring at his little ball of magic, is a dragon. An actual, living, winged child that can’t be anything but a _dragon_ , just like the ones in the old bedtime stories.

Chuck can hardly breathe, amazed and incredibly _terrified_ . A dragon in human form, small and young with big, youthful eyes, but definitely still a scaley, fire-breathing _dragon_. The same beast said to burn down villages, singe the countryside in radical displays of power, is sitting right in front of Chuck, tilting its head cutely and examining the magic in his palm with an intense curiosity, like a cat intent on birdwatching.

With its attention pulled away from him, Chuck hesitates… and decides to take a moment to really look at the human-shaped beast, because universe be damned if he meets a dragon and doesn't enjoy it before it kills him. 

The dragon has a nice face, some baby fat spread across its cheeks, and is… admittedly handsome. It— he? Let's stick with “it” for now, Chuck wouldn’t want to offend a dragon through misgendering— is shirtless, only in a pair of shorts that reach down its thighs before giving way to the huge claws of scaley, very dragon-like feet and crooked legs, which is still more intimidating than awkward when its toned muscles roll with every slight shift. Green scales speckle the dragon's olive skin, morphing up into its wings with the pink eyespots. Its long horns are nuanced with pink plates that powerfully remind Chuck of rose petals, connected from its temples to scaled cheekbones. Its long, flat nose is a bit big but still fits the dragon’s square face nicely. It’s as beautiful as Chuck has ever heard in stories; the stories of dragons being wonderous people, attractive and elegant and dangerous, with gleaming fangs, curved horns, and colorful wings. 

When the dragon looks up from staring at the magelight, meeting Chuck's wide eyes, it smiles, curved and startlingly kind, striking eyes squinting happily under its shaggy bangs. Chuck's breath hitches.

"Hey," says the dragon privately, voice light and gravelly and _perfect_ , "are you okay?"

Chuck’s mouth falls open. “Are you okay?” it asked— asked _Chuck_ . A dragon, awe inspiring and powerful enough to tear down a house, flew down to investigate some random kid on a hill, and the first thing it says is “ _are you okay?_ ” The question... hurts... a lot more than Chuck was expecting. 

His heart gives a painful throb.

Tears start streaming down his face so suddenly that Chuck closes his eyes to the welling blur. He ducks his head to hide behind his matted bangs, still clinging back against the tree, and trembles as he _sobs_ , harder than he ever has before. When he chokes, he sobs even more, shoulders jumping with each hurried breath. The dragon purts out a surprised chirp and places a gentle, clawed hand touch Chuck’s shoulder, taloned thumb rubbing against the scratchy fabric of his ruined shirt.

"Woah, hey, I'm sorry," the dragon whispers, a faint, comforting rumble under the words, _soothing Chuck_ , "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you cry..."

The dragon sounds so genuinely sorry— it wasn't even its fault, Chuck’s just a fucking crybaby— that Chuck cries a little harder and tenses, wishes this amazing creature would _not_ _look,_ just leave him be so it doesn’t have to see how horribly pathetic he is. 

But it doesn’t. Instead, it opens its wings and shields them away from the chilly night, closing Chuck out of sight and into the warmth radiating off its scales. The magelight finally manages to light up the dragon’s finer features, and through the blur of tears, Chuck can see refined details of the dragon’s eyelashes, dark and pretty, a long, jagged scar across the scales of its right cheek to its nose. 

The dragon reaches out and pulls Chuck into a hug.

Chuck gasps and goes rigid. Wincing at the tension, the dragon starts to pull away, but Chuck melts into the sudden realization of _warmth_ and _solidity_ , and his brain scrambles, trying to remember how to hug someone— how to hug the dragon back. Awkwardly, he wraps his arms around its neck before it can move away and returns the hug with a shaky exhale, a plaintive whimper. The dragon’s breath catches, stopping its attempt to move away, and relaxes back into Chuck’s probably-wrong hug. It coos sweetly, readjusts its grip to hug Chuck tight around his chest, and pulls him closer, so close he might as well be in its lap but it’s okay. Enerverated, Chuck buries his face into the dragon’s shoulder and cries and definitely soaks this poor creature’s shoulder, but it never moves away, just makes a continuous low thrum and keeps him close enough that Chuck can feel its breath against his shoulder.

The two of them sit there for as long as it takes for Chuck to stop sobbing. The dragon rubs his back tenderly, its claws just barely dragging across the open tear in Chuck’s shirt, right between his shoulder blades. At one point, Chuck feels the dragon press against a sharp ridge in his spine, tense, pause and rub to feel out the bone, and then chitter unhappily, low and deep, before giving Chuck a comfortable squeeze and resume rubbing his back.

When Chuck finally pushes away from the dragon, it keeps its hands on his arms, watching carefully as Chuck sniffles and rubs his wrist across a wet cheek, wiping away some of the tears. Gosh, crying in front of a dragon, the most humiliating thing Chuck has ever done, only second to that one time when he was ten and got cornered and covered with rotten fruits by some kids in the village. (It took a week to rinse out all of the tomato seeds in the stream, and he definitely pulled out a lot of hair.)

“Are you lost?” The dragon asks, whispering.

Chuck can’t find energy to respond yet. He shakes his head instead.

“Did you run away?”

Chuck shakes his head again.

The dragon narrows its eyes, tilts its head, “Why are you out here?”

Chuck coughs when he tries to respond, gasps, and manages to find the words, “I-I live here.”

“You’re human,” says the dragon dubiously. “Humans don’t live in the forest.”

That pulls a bitter laugh out of Chuck. The dragon startles at the harsh, raspy sound. 

“Yeah,” is all Chuck says.

The dragon stares for a long moment, elf-like ears twisting until they’re low and flat, almost hidden in the dragon’s dark hair. It huffs out its nose, takes its hands off Chuck’s shoulders, and smoothly shifts to Chuck’s side against the tree. Chuck stares in awe as the dragon’s huge wings disappear into its back in one, fluid motion, making room for the dragon to sit comfortably. When the dragon settles, it smiles again and holds out a boxy, calloused hand. 

“Hi,” it says. “I’m Mike.”

“You—” Chuck looks between the dragon’s face and its— his, definitely his— hand. “You’re…?”

Mike blinks, glances at his own hand, then back up at Chuck, smile falling uncertainly. Chuck shakes his head, face heating, and takes Mike’s grip in his own, vaguely remembering something like shaking someone’s hand when you meet them. Unsurprisingly, Mike’s hand is warm and smooth in his, only faintly textured with scales along his knuckles. It’s a wonderful first handshake.

Clearing his throat, Chuck breathes and tries not to start crying again, “I’m Chuck.”

“Nice to meet you, Chuck,” Mike smiles again. God, he’s beautiful. “Do you wanna be friends?”

Chuck blinks hard, processing the question, and yeah, he starts crying again. Amusingly, the dragon makes the same high and surprised chirp, and hesitates, but it’s only a few happy tears this time. Chuck holds out a hand, _it’s okay_.

As Mike settles down, Chuck sniffs grossly and nods. “Yeah,” he manages with only a faint waver, “yeah. That’d be great.”

“Awesome.” Mike says, eyes squinting happily again. It doesn’t last as he looks Chuck up and down though, pinching his brow and examining Chuck’s face. “You’re tired,” he says, which… isn’t far from the truth, but Chuck wasn’t expecting to hear it so bluntly. Chuck reaches up and feels at the bags under his eyes, the sickly hollows in his face, the burns under his skin throbbing in a sullen reminder.

“I’m fine,” says Chuck defensively.

“I can tell,” says Mike, and Chuck doesn’t have to see the frown, not when he can hear it in Mike’s voice. Instead, Chuck looks up just in time to see Mike’s hand as his fingertips brush against Chuck’s forehead, steady even when Chuck jolts. “I’ll come back in the morning,” Mike mumbles. ““Right now, _sleep_.”

The magic that flows from Mike’s palm is snug and loose, kind of like a summer breeze and feels the same way flowers look as they bloom, blossoming against Chuck’s temples and making him sway. His eyelids flutter, heavy and tempting, but he could resist it if he wanted to, the magic acting more like… a suggestion than a demand. Mike’s magic is soft and gentle, practiced, where Chuck’s magic always felt tingly, so unstable it sears his insides regularly.

 _I didn’t know magic could do that,_ Chuck thinks, slumping comfortably between Mike’s shoulder and the tree. 

He sleeps.

* * *

Chuck still aches in the morning. His forearms blaze from the inside, raw from yesterday’s discharge. Groaning, he presses his face into the bark of the tree, relishing the hard, familiar texture, and sighs, mind hazy. He doesn’t have much time to relax before something like pressure makes his cheek tingle, startles him as it pushes _into him_ , like magic, coming… from the tree. 

He startles, the weird push disappearing as soon as he yanks away from the bark, but when he darts his head to look up, nothing is out of the ordinary. All he hears is the familiar rustle of the leaves in the morning breeze, the curving oak towering above him, welcoming and familiar. The forest shivers in the morning light, a fresh breeze through the trees. Crows caw somewhere off in the distance, wide awake as they search for food god knows where.

Which is super weird. Chuck shivers and stares for a little longer, mainly at the bark as he searches for some kind of marking or glow— anything that points to magic.

And then his stomach growls really, really angrily.

“Fuck,” he hisses quietly, rubbing his hands across his face distractedly. Apparently the berries he found yesterday didn’t satisfy anything, dammit. Using as much magic as he did, he shouldn’t be surprised that his reserves immediately dropped to nearly empty. (Thank god not completely empty—)

He’s just starting to stumble out of his little bed when he hears the loud beat of wings and a shadow floats over the hill, splitting open the orange and pink of the dawn gleaming across the grass. Chuck gasps and whips around, searching the pastel sky for the source, blinded by the morning sun, when a huge shape lands halfway up the hill and starts climbing, walking up toward Chuck. 

Then, he remembers. Memories of heated scales and gentle hands, a friendly smile, someone who sat down and hugged him and called him “friend.”

 _Friend_ , he repeats to himself as the dragon boy approaches, wings flicking out and folding graciously behind his back. He’s wearing more clothes this time, a tight black tank top and the same black shorts with a modest dip for his tail. It’s weirdly fascinating to see how he dresses. He looks so... nice, put together, and Chuck shuffles on his feet and feels self-conscious of his own dirty, half torn apart shirt and shitty pants with holes in the knees. In the morning light, Chuck looks at the dragon as a whole, admiring him for his big hands and broad shoulders, trim waist to a lean body that he hasn’t quite grown into (yet). Chuck himself is a little on the gangly side too, clumsy as all hell with his damn baby toe missing, and he definitely has more growing to do (too skinny, too wiry).

Then he sees the dragon still has his claws out, his smile toothy with fangs, and Chuck freezes. No matter how pretty or trustworthy this boy looks, he’s still a _dragon_. 

Apparently Chuck is tense enough to notice even from down the hill. The dragon— gosh, what was his name again?— pauses a few yards away and raises his hands passively, claws shortening into human hands. “Hey,” he says carefully, smiling. Chuck stares as the boy’s teeth visibly dull. “You’re up! That’s great. I, uh, brought you some food.” 

Chuck blinks, even more perplexed when the boy takes a cautious half-step forward, like he’s worried that Chuck might lash out if he isn’t careful, and gingerly sets a small cloth sack he had tucked under his arm on the ground. “I thought you could use it,” the dragon says, glancing up at Chuck hopefully. “You seemed hungry.”

 _Food?_ a part of Chuck’s brain thinks hungrily, hopeful. Chuck smothers that part of his brain down quickly in favor of the fact that _no one alive has cared about giving him food_. “... Why though?”

Now it’s the dragon’s turn to look confused. “Why what?”

“You’re just,” Chuck gestures to the sack in the grass, lip twitching with annoyance as his stomach growls loudly, “giving out your food? To _me_?”

“Uh, yeah,” the dragon says, like he doesn’t understand how valuable that is. It’s _food_ , the thing that keeps people alive when paired with water. Do dragons just not need food? Chuck snorts skeptically to himself, crossing his arms. Everything needs food to survive, so why would he give any of his stash to someone else?

 _Oh_ , Chuck thinks forlornly, a jealous sting glowering in his chest, _he probably doesn’t care because he has enough to_ not _care_. The bitter feeling grows as Chuck thinks how he's never had that luxury, always scrounging for rotten or tossed food in the village or foraging for things in the forest. It took a few years of watching and cautiously testing to find out what to eat and what not to eat, and it’s pure luck that nothing ever killed him. 

Chuck shoves the angry emotions down in favor of consideration, because if the dragon doesn’t have to worry about it…

“Hm,” he hums, breaking the silence just as the dragon starts to get twitchy, and takes a hesitant step forward, “okay.” Chuck meets the distance halfway between him and the boy, crouches down to pick up the sack delicately, and glances up.

… The dragon is staring with an unnerving focus, eyes glowing that intense neon green and yellow.

“Um,” Chuck looks around awkwardly, plops down on the grass, and pats the space beside him, “come sit. Please?”

The weird, intense focus disappears, and the dragon smiles, wings disappearing from his back as he steps up the hill. Chuck blinks and narrows his eyes curiously, watching intently as the dragon folds his double jointed legs up under him, tail swinging around to keep from sitting on it, and plops down beside Chuck, turning to him expectantly with that big, fanged grin.

Chuck narrows his eyes. “You smile a lot, don’t you,” he says, because he has no social filter. 

He doesn’t have time to be embarrassed about the probably rude question. The dragon makes a funny, inhuman noise and starts laughing. Chuck startles at the sweet and unabashedly boisterous, hardy sound, cheeks warming.

“Yeah,” says the dragon, his laughter dying down to an amused snicker, “I guess I do!”

“So, you’re like… a smiling dragon.”

“Yup,” he grins, “Sir Smiling Dragon at your service.” 

This guy is so damn sweet. Chuck had better remember this dragon boy’s name or else it’s going to kill him. 

But it’s fair that he can’t remember— he’s never had to remember before. He’s never had a friend, never been touched by someone so gently as far back as he can remember, hadn’t really been touched by anyone for nine years until yesterday, for some reason, and that was…

The gentle interaction from last night wasn’t what he was expecting. It was soft and warm, but solid and unwavering in a way Chuck had never felt. The tree is solid and unwavering too, sure, but it isn’t soft; the ground has never been soft and it’s never comfortable; the leaves and grass he tears from the dirt and lays out to make his bed are cold and dry and harden over time; the dragon wasn’t like that though. His body wasn’t like any of the other things, and his hands weren’t harsh and didn’t grip Chuck’s arms too hard like the other kids...

Chuck shivers, instantaneously stops, and looks down as interrupted by the smell of whatever food the dragon brought him because that smell is _angelic_. Chuck stares at the cloth, wide eyed, “Woah.”

“Woah what?” The dragon asks.

“It…” Chuck unfolds the cloth and reels at the sight: a small loaf of fresh bread cleanly cut in half. “Oh! Oh my god, it’s bread!”

“Yeah,” the dragon says. Chuck doesn’t place the odd note in the dragon’s voice before he adds, “For you, dude.”

Chuck says something along the lines of “thank you” before he bites into the bread and keeps going, only pausing to moan or sniffle because he’s definitely crying a little, it’s _so damn good_. It only hurts for a second after he’s swallowed and done scarfing the thing down, admittedly still hungry, but at least his stomach isn’t curling in on itself anymore. It feels good to eat something that isn’t just a few berries, especially after Chuck’s little-big magic drain.

The dragon grins. “Good?”

“God, yes,” says Chuck, turns back to the cloth, and briefly wonders what to do with it. He’s seen women in the village wash and fold things like blankets and clothes, hanging them out to dry on a rack or chair outside. Does he need to do that with this? Maybe he can hang it on a branch—

“So, uh,” the boy turns to Chuck’s tree, his beautiful green and yellow eyes shrinking into a dark honey brown, giving way to the whites of his completely _human_ eyes. Chuck blinks, taken aback even as the dragon says, “How long have you lived with her?”

Chuck squints. “Her?”

“Your tree,” the dragon elaborates and clambers back to his reptilian feet, starting toward the oak.

“Oh! Uh,” Chuck pushes himself up, still holding onto the cloth, and winces as his muscles burn with a vengeance. “Since I was about nine,” he replies, relieved his voice doesn’t break.

The dragon hums and stops in front of the tree, running his hand along the bark, fingers feeling out the dips in the wood. The dragon’s skin is only a shade lighter than the oak’s brown trunk, Chuck notices, admiring the subtle difference as he stops a few paces behind.

“I asked her to give you some of my magic this morning— as a pick-me-up, since you’re magical too,” says the dragon, smiling at the tree. “You seem like you’re feeling a bit better.”

Chuck blinks, confused, and remembers the odd pressure that flooded into him from the tree when he first woke up. “Oh,” he gasps, “that was you?! I mean— uh, her? Wait, what?” How did the dragon know he was drained in the first place? And feeling better? The veins in Chuck’s arms are still too warm and still have the burny, raw feeling, yeah… but he doesn’t feel like he might topple over like he normally does whenever he uses too much magic or those... weird outbursts happen. 

“Oh! Th-thank you!” He exclaims gratefully, gaping in his amazement. He didn’t know trees and magic could do that! Cool!

“Don’t thank me, dude,” the dragon says, grins back at Chuck. “It’s the least I could do. I didn’t want you to be sick!”

 _How does he know I’d be sick?_ Chuck thinks, narrowing his eyes behind his hair.

The dragon turns and starts climbing up the oak tree, jumping up to one of the lower, thicker branches. Chuck stares as the dragon plops down on his belly and lounges, letting his draconic legs stretch and dangle below him, clawed toes spreading out and curling back in. Hesitant, Chuck looks up at the boy, starts, “You—” and freezes. Oh god, he still can’t remember his name. Chuck opens and closes his mouth a few times, hoping the name will just come to him. It doesn’t, of course. “So, uh— um… Yyyou—”

“Mike,” says the dragon, smiling down at Chuck. (Yeah, another question, can dragons read minds?)

“Right!” _Idiot_ , Chuck hisses quietly to himself, _forget the name of the only person who has ever wanted to be your friend_. “So, uh, Mike, that’s an… interesting name for a dragon. Do you remember who gave it to you?”

Mike gives Chuck a curious smile, tilts his head, and glances off thoughtfully into the distance. “I mean, I’ve just been… well, me for as long as I can remember. I think my parents gave it to me.”

“Oh.” _Duh_. Chuck’s cheeks turn pink, flustering, and blurts out, “Is it short for anything?”

“Nope!” Mike chirps and leans down off the branch, talons clinging, tail balancing to keep him from falling on his head as he looks at Chuck upside-down. “It’s just Mike! What about you?”

Chuck laughs faintly, “Just Chuck.”

“Okay, ‘Just Chuck,’” grins Mike and just _falls backwards_ off the tree. He lands securely on his feet, claws splayed for balance, and twists back to beam with his smile. Chuck’s mouth drops. “Now that we’re friends, what do you like to play?”

Chuck snaps out of his stunned gape at that. “Play?”

Mike nods encouragingly, smiling so bright Chuck starts to think he’s staring at the sun. “Yeah. Or, what do you like to do? I play around a lot where I come from, just pretend stuff. Even though we’re older, it’s still fun to be something else for a while!”

“Play pretend?” Chuck echoes ignorantly.

Mike stares, the gears turning behind his eyes as he processes that Chuck doesn’t fully understand. “Oh,” he says and lights up even brighter, tail wagging eagerly behind him. Chuck is definitely squinting now. “ _Oh_ , you’ve never played pretend before?!” 

He sounds so amazed, Chuck snorts and can’t help but smile a little, past the embarrassment that tells him he should know something when he doesn’t. It’s okay, he’s fine. Mike isn’t angry. “Uh, no, not really. I kinda—” _have been preoccupied trying to survive?_ Chuck does a funky, uneven shrug. “Hah, I just don’t.”

“Oh man, we gotta change that,” Mike smirks, eyelids falling conspiratorially. Chuck narrows his eyes at that look. Whenever other children gave him that look, they’d chase him away. 

Even with Mike’s pointy teeth and horns and claws, he feels like something good might come out of that look… but only if it’s coming from Mike.

Chuck tilts his head, “Okay. What do I have to do?”

* * *

Mike spends the whole day showing Chuck how to play pretend. Each game is something new, something completely out of Mike’s imagination and fueled by things that he had heard in stories— stories just like Chuck’s.

The first time around, they’re pirates. When Chuck asks what a pirate is, Mike grins and starts telling Chuck about “captains” and “ships” and “the ocean,” things Chuck has the faintest memory of hearing the word, but never actually knowing it. The ocean, it turns out, is a huge lake that you can’t see the end of, filled with water you can’t drink, and ships are huge things like wagons but weirder, made from trees so people can float on the water. Chuck clings to every word as Mike acts out with sticks for swords, and even though Chuck doesn’t want to learn how to use the sticks— doesn’t want to learn how to use a sword to hurt people— Mike doesn’t skip a beat. He just smiles and says “okay!” and helps show Chuck that he can be a diplomat of a kingdom where Mike is his pirate-for-hire. Even though pirates are supposed to be bad, Mike is a good pirate who only steals from other pirates. Chuck decides that he likes good pirates, and Mike is a really good pirate.

For the next game, he’s an adventurer, which Chuck is much better at. Mike is his fellow adventurer too, and they hike through the woods and make quests like “find this berry bush” or “find the home of the lost fairy.” Chuck is actually good at it too, and, in a way, better than Mike. After six years of nothing but exploring and surviving, Chuck knows these woods, every deer path and badger burrow, by heart. He shows Mike places that make Mike smile and stare, watching the water of the stream or listening to a squirrel chatter down at them from the trees. At one point, Mike tells Chuck that he can talk to animals and ask them where things are in the forest and can “kind of talk to trees.” 

Chuck has no idea what “kind of talk to trees” means, so he asks, “Talk to animals?” and feels down on himself, because Mike really had the advantage this whole time. Chuck isn’t special for knowing where things are after years of exploring. “Why did you let me show you everything then?”

“Because I wanted you to show me,” says Mike, positively glowing in the midday sunshine, sunspots from the canopy lighting up the scales of his cheeks. “It means more if you show me, because it’s something special to you, and I enjoy listening to you.”

Chuck is blown away by Mike’s response, speechless until the next game.

Being a dragon is much more different than being a pirate or an adventurer. Chuck feels awkward acting like he has wings when Mike very clearly does have wings, so Mike tells him about _drakes_ , a subspecies of dragon without wings, and says he can be one of those. Mike teaches Chuck how to growl, and Chuck squeaks instead, which is embarrassing when Mike laughs at him, but then Mike explains that it’s okay. Soon, they’re both laughing at the random little not-growls Chuck accidentally makes, and Mike cheers and thoroughly praises him when he finally gets it right. It’s a bit overwhelming when they start playing though. Mike is horned and sharp, wings flared, eyes slitted and inhuman, and he just _stares_. Unblinking when Chuck plays, with an intent kind of focus. He still plays back with Chuck, never stops or frowns or thinks Chuck is annoying when he asks Mike not to touch him, so it isn’t really a problem. It’s just… unsettling to be watched like that.

Within that time, Mike seems grateful to learn more about Chuck too. How sometimes Chuck can’t be touched when he gets overwhelmed and the world is too much for a few seconds, or when Chuck says or does something he gets embarrassed and worried he’s done something wrong, all because he’s never really been around people before. He doesn’t know how to talk or play right with Mike.

Mike accepts it, though, and takes it as it comes, never pushing Chuck too far or calling him a freak.

And it’s _fun_. It’s _so_ _fun_.

It’s past sundown when they finally get tired. Chuck doesn’t realize his arms have stopped burning until he’s sitting down on the hill with Mike, breathing hard and happily sore from running around the woods all day. When Mike puts a hand on his shoulder, Chuck jumps, the same strange push that came from the tree this morning coming from Mike, the odd flow of energy from his hand into Chuck but with the added bonus of Mike’s flowering magic. Instead of jumping away like he did this morning, Chuck leans into it, relishing the satisfying feeling of magic being given back to him instead of drained away. 

While they were playing, Mike would step close to him, brush a hand across Chuck’s arm, his side, whenever Chuck wasn’t too sensitive to be touched. It was always subtle, brief enough that Chuck didn’t notice until later that, with each touch, he felt _better_ . The realization that Mike would take the time to give him that energy— his own energy, _his own magic_ — kind of makes Chuck want to cry, kind of makes Chuck want to hug Mike again and stay there, kind of makes him want to… do something else. Probably something stupid. 

But, for now, sitting on the hill beside Mike is enough.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” Mike promises. “I’ll show you some other cool things. We can play some more too.”

Chuck feels himself smile as he watches the sun disappear over the top of the forest, dowsing the two in shadows.

“Okay.”


End file.
